Gonzo Girl

by Cheryl Della Pietra

  “Thank you,” Walker says. “Cheers.” We clink glasses as Arkansas governor Bill Clinton appears on the TV. He’s running for president, pressing the flesh at a California rally. The ladies seem to love him.

  “This fucking scuzzball,” says Walker, shaking his head. In addition to his semiautobiographical novels, Walker traffics in political commentary (often brilliant) and sportswriting (often on drugs).

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Fuck. Look . . . if Clinton is elected, you’re going to get someone who really believes his own bullshit. And that’s dangerous.”

  “As opposed to?”

  “I don’t know . . . Nixon.”

  “Nixon?!”

  “He lied with a straight face. So what. They all lie. Don’t get me wrong: I never loved Nixon. He was a filthy sow of a human being. As depraved as they come. But at least he never believed his own lies. He was just a straight-up crook.” Walker turns to me quickly, as if he’s just remembered something. “Speaking of scuzzballs, stay away from Larry.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I saw you two last night.”

  “Cripe, Walker, I said maybe four words to Larry.”

  Walker takes a plastic bag from the yellow envelope and dumps about a half cup of cocaine onto a plate; far more than that remains in the envelope.

  “You were having eye sex. Everybody could see that. Trust me, you’re too smart for him.”

  I know from Claudia that Larry spends about half of his time off set at Walker’s. “If you think he’s so dumb, why do you have him out here so much?”

  “Because he knows how to have fun.” This is Walker’s shorthand for he can ingest truckloads of drugs. “Plus, he’s accomplished. You forget that Larry’s got an Oscar. He’s not even thirty.” Larry Lucas is well-known—and frequently mocked—for his unnecessarily immersive approach to the craft of acting. Five years ago, in an attempt to shed the teen-heartthrob label and be taken seriously as an actor, he traded in his famously gelled mane for an unkempt shag, a prosthetically enhanced brow, and oversize glasses in an effort to portray a mentally challenged man who wanted nothing more than to marry a mentally challenged woman in a weepy treaclefest called To Be Happy. The movie was a shameless rip-off of the Shaun Cassidy vehicle Like Normal People, except it wasn’t made for TV, and it won Larry the Academy Award for Best Actor in a thin field that year.

  “Then he must be pretty smart.”

  “Trust me, he’s not. That dumbass couldn’t find snow in Alaska.” Walker starts cutting lines with a Visa card. When he puts the card down, I notice the expiration date.

  “You know that’s a good card, right?”

  He takes a look at it, as if considering for the first time that it could be used to purchase actual goods and services.

  “Well, look at that. This expires in 1994. Fuck me. I’ve got to talk to Claudia about that.”

  Devaney emerges from the back bedroom in a pair of Walker’s boxer shorts folded over at the waist and an oversize, yellow T-shirt that’s slipping casually off her left shoulder, no bra strap in sight. She does a line and pours herself a cup of coffee. Walker playfully reaches over to grab her ass, and she swats him away and flops down on the circular sofa, facing the TV. She grabs the remote, flicking around until she settles on a talk show. There is something about Devaney I envy—how she fits in here so casually, doing drugs, looking sexy. More than that, I’m hoping she’ll satisfy Walker’s desire for someone to do lines with him right now.

  “You want a Bloody, Devaney?”

  “No,” she says shortly.

  “Turn that crap off,” Walker says. “I’m watching something.”

  “News, news, and more news. It’s boring. It’s the same dang stories over and over.”

  “Give me the remote,” Walker says evenly.

  Devaney takes the plate of coke and does one more line, then slams the remote down on Walker’s typewriter. She grabs her coffee and retreats back to the bedroom.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Walker says, waving his hand, as if I might for some reason be concerned with the complexities of Walker’s go-to tail, which doesn’t appear all that complex: He’s fifty-two years old. She’s half his age, talks like Scarlett O’Hara, and looks like a young Debbie Harry. End of story.

  “I’m not worried,” I say. “And don’t worry about Larry. What are we doing today anyhow?”

  “Well, we have to start by getting you some clothes first.” He says this as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, as if I’ve lost all of my clothes in some unfortunate natural disaster. He does a line and hands me the plate.

  “What’s wrong with my clothes?” I’m wearing a black, long-sleeved shirt, black jeans, and black leather shoes.

  “You look, I don’t know, Amish, for Christ’s sake. Like an Amish funeral director. It’s almost impossible, your look. Terrible. Depressing. A waste.”

  “Thanks, Walker. You really know how to make a girl feel good.” We both stare down at the plate. I’m thinking of all of the ways I’ve compromised my dignity for a job—the basic drudgery of what I’ve done up until now. The dining hall, the bar, the unpaid internship. These jobs were all supposed to lead somewhere—to some job like this one. If I have to compromise for this one, too, at least it will get me someplace I actually want to go. I lean in and do my first line with surprising gusto, tasting the bitterness of the postnasal drip.

  “It’s a compliment, missy. I’m saying you have potential.” He takes another sip of his drink. “Plus, you make a damn good Bloody.”

  “I know my look’s a little drab, but it’s not exactly tragic.”

  “Trust me, it’s tragic. Then we have to go harass that jackass Henley.”

  “Who’s Henley?”

  Walker just rolls his eyes. “Then we need to get some flowers. Then we have some dinner. Then we shoot some guns. Then we have some fun.”

  “When do we write?”

  “Later.”

  We’re quiet for a moment, sipping the drinks, when I begin to feel the cocaine. Then suddenly I am keenly aware that I am most definitely, wow, feeling the cocaine. The two lines I did with Tom had barely done a thing for me, but this . . . this is Walker Reade’s drugs. They’re good. If I had to describe the feeling, it would be “reset.” I am ready. For what I’m not sure, but whatever the hell it is, I’m in. “I looked over your pages last night,” I say.

  “You did, huh?”

  Walker changes the channel back to Crossfire and puts another CD into the player—Dire Straits.

  I’m about to open my mouth when Walker declares, with no room for argument, “Fuck the pages. Go put some makeup on, for Christ’s sake. You’re going out with me.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “I’m not coming out.”

  “Come on, let’s see.”

  “Um . . . no.”

  “Don’t make me come in there,” Walker says.

  “Actually, I don’t mind if you come in. I just don’t want anyone else seeing me in this getup. It’s absurd.” We’re at a trendy boutique in downtown Aspen, and Walker has picked out six outfits for me to try on. This, the first one, makes me look like I’m in the evening-gown competition for Miss Puerto Rico. I open the door a few inches, and Walker’s eyes pop wide. “I’m letting you in here on one condition.”

  “What now?”

  “One page. Later tonight—whenever. But one page before I go to bed.”

  “Fine. Just let me see.”

  I open the door and catch the saleslady eyeing me in the mirror as Walker comes in, slamming the door behind him. It’s obviously not the first time he’s been here with a young lady.

  “Hot dog! See, I knew you had potential.” I am wearing a fuchsia minidress.

  “Walker, this is not me.”

  “Exactly. Remember, your clothes are hideous.”

  “Okay. I get it. Is there no happy medium here?”

  “Do you really think I’ve gotten to my place
in life by searching for happy mediums?”

  “Fine. But do we have to inject your philosophy of life into my wardrobe?”

  “I’m the one who’s going to have to look at you all day and try to be inspired to write something. Plus, I’m paying. So technically it’s my wardrobe.”

  “What does that make me, then?”

  “Right now? A very underpaid and mouthy mannequin.”

  “Ouch. Can I not maintain some dignity here?”

  “Overrated. You look great. Sold! What’s next?”

  “Turn please.”

  As I’m changing, Walker turns away and pulls what looks like a small cigarette case out of his pocket. He takes a small spoon from its side, opens the case, and does a quick hit of coke.

  “Okay, really, this is too much.” It’s a fishnet shirt with a built-in bra. Walker has chosen a miniskirt to go with it. “This is, I don’t know, stripper on her day off.”

  “And who doesn’t love a stripper going to Home Depot? You look great. Here.” He hands me the cigarette case. The earlier line has worn off without incident. I do another hit.

  “Does this not reek of the worst kind of objectification?”

  “Oh my God. When was I teleported to a women’s studies seminar at Vassar?”

  “That’s your answer?”

  “Yes. C’mon, this is fun. Loosen up, girl. Number three.”

  “Around.”

  Walker turns and does another quick hit. I can hear the saleslady pacing outside.

  “Everything okay in there, Mr. Reade?” she says, a thinly veiled hysteria rising in her voice.

  “Good God, woman. Leave us alone!” he barks.

  “Walker, that’s rude.”

  “What, I’m fucking spending money in here. Lots of money.”

  The next outfit is a surprisingly conservative tennis dress with spaghetti straps and built-in shorts.

  “Cripe. What fantasy is this fulfilling?”

  “The Tracy Austin one. Here.”

  I eye the cigarette case and recall Claudia’s words. I sure as hell can’t analyze each line put in front of me. I shove the spoon up my nose again, and suddenly, again, everything kicks in. I am awake. Twenty cups of coffee awake. We both start talking a little too quickly over each other.

  “I look like jailbait.”

  “You are jailbait.”

  “I’m twenty-two.”

  “I repeat—”

  “The official definition of jailbait—”

  “You think I don’t know the official definition of jailbait?”

  “I’m old enough—”

  “It’s more a state of mind, sweetheart.”

  “What about Devaney?”

  “Not as close as you’d think.”

  “Mr. Reade, may I help your friend find any sizes?” The saleslady is speaking slowly and deliberately now, loudly, like she’s asking for directions in a third-world country full of deaf people.

  “How many different ways would you like me to tell you to go away?!”

  I can tell this woman is seriously torn between wanting to rid her establishment of two questionable coke fiends and minding her monthly commission.

  Now I’m just trying to get us out of there. “What are we doing next?”

  “We’re fucking with Henley.”

  “Who’s Henley again?”

  “Just shut up.”

  “You shut up.”

  “Mr. Reade . . . ?!?”

  “Christ almighty! Just take everything. We’ll get everything. Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

  The other three outfits are a red cocktail dress, a cowgirl skirt and ruffle top, and a pink tracksuit.

  “Leave that one on,” he says, waving his hand up and down at the tennis dress. In the name of expediency, I do.

  We head out to the counter, where the saleslady is standing nervously, lips pursed. She eyes me disapprovingly, as if this were all my idea.

  “You’d think we weren’t spending thousands of dollars in here,” Walker says, twitching for a fight. “You’d think we were about to suffocate a kitten in here or something.”

  “Or something.” She looks at me and quickly brushes her nose.

  I do the same and a shocking quantity of white powder falls from my finger.

  “Is this how you treat all your customers?”

  “No,” she says pointedly. “All of this?”

  “Yes, no thanks to you.” As she’s ringing, Walker goes to the back of the store where the shoes are. “What’re you, a seven, Alley?”

  “Yes . . . exactly.”

  Walker comes back with two pairs of sky-high heels—black, open-toed sandals and shiny red pumps.

  “These, too.”

  “That’s 1,256 dollars.” The saleslady softens her tone slightly. “How are you paying?”

  “Cash, sweetheart. That’s how.” Walker pulls a giant wad of hundred-dollar bills from his front pocket and peels off thirteen of them.

  “Thank you, Mr. Reade.”

  “It’s about time I got some fucking thanks around here.”

  The saleslady puts the clothing and the shoes into four bags and hands them to me with two judgmental fingers on the rope straps. Outside, we spill back into Walker’s red convertible, a 1973 Chevy Caprice Classic. Some version of this car has played prominently in many of his books; I almost can’t believe I’m sitting in it. Walker tucks my bags into the floor of the backseat and starts rummaging around.

  “What are you doing back there?”

  “Prep” is all he says.

  I turn around, and Walker is wrestling a large contraption from underneath a blanket and mounting it onto the back of the Caprice with what appears to be a giant suction cup. Magnets might also be involved. This homemade machine appears to be the love child of a bullhorn and a battery-operated double-cassette player and looks like it was made in someone’s garage after that someone smoked a huge amount of pot. Either that or it was stolen from a seventh-grade science fair. He puts two tapes into the machine.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Buckle up. We’re off to Henley’s.”

  We make our way back up the mountain near where Walker lives but take a sharp left before his house, winding farther up the road until we reach a neighborhood of what appear to be newly built mansions. I had always imagined one bought a mansion for privacy, but these seem to be inhabited by people who either couldn’t afford the privacy or had some misguided fantasy that they would be a part of a “community.” In front of me, about ten mansions are huddled close together in a development, like a parking lot full of mastodons. Several cars are parked in their respective driveways, but not a single person is in sight.

  Regardless, it’s time for Walker to start the show. He pulls the car to the curb, reaches in the back, turns the machine on, and resumes driving. Suddenly, simultaneously, two sound tracks overlap at an earsplitting volume. One is “The End of the Innocence,” and the other is of a woman engaged in a strenuous bout of hog calling. It sounds something like this—“Offer . . . Sooey . . . up your . . . piggypiggypiggy! . . . best defense . . . Sooey!”—and the effect is several things at once: mesmerizing, horrifying, and hilarious. Every so often, as we drive slowly around the neighborhood, a window opens or someone comes out on their porch to see Walker, cheering him on. A few folks snap photos. And then I see him: Henley. Henley is Don Henley, and he has the look of a man who has been long tortured by Walker’s nonsense. He eyes us coolly from the top window of his house, his precious Top 10 hit getting the shit beaten out of it by a wild hog. I am doubled over laughing—the coke making it easy to laugh wildly, hysterically, at Don Henley’s angst—as Walker puts the car in park, stands up, and shoots Don Henley the double bird. Henley just shakes his head and retreats into the shadows.

  Walker makes his way back to the main road and pulls over. He pulls a bottle of Tanqueray from underneath the seat and hands it to me.

  “Ugh. Italians can’t drink gin.”
I’m not just saying this because I hate gin. I could kill a man after a single martini. Walker fishes under the seat and pulls out a bottle of Gentleman Jack.

  “You got cocktail nuts under there, too?”

  “This is for courage. Drink.”

  I take a long swig from the bottle. “What do I need courage for?”

  Walker fiddles in his pocket and pulls out what look like two small postage stamps with purple pyramids on them.

  I stare at them and mentally chronicle the litany of clichés that will justify taking one. When in Rome . . . Seize the day . . . You only live once . . . Then I remember something my brother John Dante used to say: “You want to hang with the guys? Then grow a pair.”

  “Want one?”

  Normally I might be more cautious. But now, here, in the front seat of the Chevy, slightly coked up, wearing a tennis dress, whiskey on my breath, Walker’s other hand on my knee, I realize that this question is merely rhetorical. I’m in now. More important, Walker is inviting me in. I pick up one tab of the acid and place it on my tongue, Walker starts chewing on the other, and the car lurches forward.

  Von Gundy’s Garden Center is a retailer that has applied the expansiveness of a big-box store to something more intimate—flowers. When you are tripping on the finest acid in the universe, the place is nothing short of a miracle. Walker and I are holding hands, smiling wide, and walking through the aisles like two children in a Stevie Nicks song—while rainbows aren’t exactly present, or unicorns manning the aisles, the glorious feeling of them is, as we go from the purple-peony aisle to the red-impatiens aisle to the yellow-daisy aisle. Endless aisles of greenery are here as well—ferns, potted plants, small trees. Walker grabs a large flatbed dolly and I climb aboard. He steers through the aisles, stopping here and there so I can pick up flats of golden marigolds, pink pansies, red begonias, white geraniums, and purple petunias. We head to the checkout, and I am lying on the dolly, surrounded by the flowers. Walker is looking down on me, smiling a devilish grin, his filtered cigarette hanging out of his mouth, unlit.